Hangman

The crowd taunted and jeered at the man standing on the gallows. Next to him stood the town mayor and a figure whose face was hidden by the hangman’s hood. The year was September 1867; a year after the standard drop was introduced, which had been acclaimed to be the new, most efficient way of hanging someone. The villagers had never witnessed such a thing before. They eagerly swarmed around the open-stage, murmuring to one another in idle speech as paper boys and food vendors paced around them, attempting to sell their goods. From where the villagers were standing, they would not only be able to observe the drop of the criminal, but their last few seconds of life near to the ground, too. Teeming rain poured from the dismal-grey sky, running down the pebbled street and into a nearby rusty drain. Rows of brown thatched houses lined the courtyard where the final preparations for the execution were being made. The hooded figure was tightening and securing the noose.
Henry Keane was the one standing between the two other men, awaiting his fate. His clean, shoulder-length hair blew around his warm, brown eyes, behind which resided intelligence and knowledge. It was the welcoming feeling from his placid, fearless expression that assured you just by looking at him he would do anything to protect those he loved. Henry could have been anybody’s hero…however, his hands were bound behind him with a length of tight, tattered rope that chafed into the delicate flesh of his wrists. His once-smart attire was now torn and marred with dirt and dust, but the clothes on his body were not a fraction as damaged as his emotions. After he was betrayed by Horace Keane, leading to him being falsely accused of manslaughter, his life was ripped away from him.
Horace, the one who began the allegations was, on the outside, a considerably knowledgeable, smartly-dressed man who grew to become an affluent member of the village community. Despite having a similar attainment of wealth and intelligence as his brother Henry, one could not feel the same warmth and kindness from and towards Horace Keane. He was envious, spiteful and lusted for one thing he didn’t have in his otherwise complete life: a woman. But not just any woman, the one he believed Henry had stolen from him. He had thin, black, balding hair, several wrinkle lines embedded in his forehead, squint eyes and a peculiar grin. The simple villagers thought this was merely a happy expression as he was so content with what he had, but his inner-expression was that of someone who had just tasted a sour lemon and vinegar cocktail. After Horace had lost the love of his life to Henry, he was distraught and deteriorated into a begrudging being determined for revenge. He found it sickening that he was a lonesome creature, while Henry had such a beautiful wife and model children. It was unfair…too unfair. He began to devise a plan to convince the whole village that Henry Keane was guilty of an unforgivable crime, to make him pay for stealing her from him. Horace plotted to kill the mayor’s wife and then use his unquestioned intelligence to persuade him that Henry Keane was responsible.
While the mayor was attending a council meeting, Horace picked the lock to his stately home and crept inside, armed with a little revolver. He found the mayor’s wife in the kitchen, her back turned to him…but what Horace didn’t know is that his niece Amelia happened to be in another room, busily cleaning to earn some extra money for her family. Upon hearing an ear-splitting bang, she came bursting into the room, only to be apprehended by Horace, who shut her in the cellar with nothing more than a bowl of water to drink. Before leaving, Horace placed one of Henry’s embroidered handkerchiefs he had stolen from him on the floor, next to the body of the mayor’s wife. Unsurprisingly, Henry was blamed and lost his job after being taken away, testified against by an easily-swayed judge, jury and false-witnesses and sentenced to death.
Married and a proud father, Henry Keane’s wife and two remaining children suffered endless taunting and rejection from a society that used to regard them as an admirable family. His wife, Felicity Keane, was a pretty, caring lady who was shunned by the other villagers after Henry was prosecuted. She was banished from parish council meetings, refused service in many of the shops and became the subject of town talk. Henry’s two ten year old twin boys were avoided and tormented at school by students and teachers alike, although they had no idea why.
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Horace stood amongst the other spectators in a three-piece suit, impatiently waiting for the pulling of the lever.
“You stand here today, charged with the crime of murdering…my wife,” the mayor snarled, reading from a piece of paper held in front of him, “and, following a trial, you have been found guilty and face the punishment of death by hanging. Is there anything you would like to say?”
Henry looked up and glanced around the crowd, noticing Felicity amongst the sea of furious faces glaring back at him. They were desperate to see his body limply hanging.
“Why would I kill anyone? It is obvious you have already come to a decision, but it was not me who killed her. I am nothing but a lawful, guiltless man,” Henry replied.
The audience booed and shouted insults at him before the burly, hooded figure placed the noose over Henry’s head. Time was running out.
Henry had one last look around the village and braced himself for what was to come. From the distance, he could see…a person? There was a child dashing towards the gathering, arms flailing about. As she quickly approached the crowd, Henry soon realised who it was.
“Amelia?!” he called in disbelief. His daughter looked exhausted and she was cloaked in dust and dirt as tears streamed down her delicate, shining-blue eyes.
“Father, it was him! I was…he murdered…I was locked in a cellar for days. But I escaped by piling up… ” she cried, having so much to say and not knowing what to tell him first. Her mother found Amelia, wrapping both arms around the distressed little girl and running her fingers through her tangled hair.
“Wait,” Amelia said, pulling out of her mother’s grasp. She ran to the front of the stage and looked up at Henry, her kind, loving father and the two mysterious, evil-looking figures next to him. In a panted breath she gasped, “It was…it was Uncle Horace! He killed her!”
Facing the audience, she used the last of her energy to tell them all, “Horace Keane killed the mayor’s wife!”
Everybody gasped, turning to face the horrifically-surprised-looking man who frantically observed the fast-converting group.
“What? What are you talking about?” he spluttered.
As the easily-convinced villagers were beginning to believe that Henry was innocent, Amelia collapsed in fatigue, dropping to the stone-cold floor.
“Don’t listen to her…she’s just a little girl!” Horace stammered.
“Let Henry go!” one shouted.
“Free him!” another called.
“No…do it!” Horace shouted, “Pull the lever!”
The hooded man walked up to the lever and grasped it with two big, firm hands and pulled it towards him with a hard tug. The trap-door beneath Henry’s feet swung open and he immediately dropped down it like an anvil. When the rope reached its limit it pulled, jerking Henry’s head upward followed by an ear-piercing click. The villagers stood in a chilling silence as his body limply hung, swaying ever so slightly in the cold, bitter wind. Horace had succeeded in his plan. A little smile crept onto his face.